


Poppet

by Becky_Blue_Eyes



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: European Mythology & Folklore, F/M, Gen, Historical Fantasy, Morally Ambiguous Character, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:00:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22784473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becky_Blue_Eyes/pseuds/Becky_Blue_Eyes
Summary: And all the while they fight and argue over the Great Matter, Mary plays with her dolls. Oh, Lady Salisbury reprimands her for her lightheartedness, as good Christian ladies ought to spend their hours praying and being penitent. Yes, yes, good Christian ladies did that…but Mary, with her Woodville green eyes and sharp cheekbones, never claims to be as such.Or, a little short story where perhaps Henry VIII ought to have treated his eldest daughter better.
Relationships: Anne Boleyn/Henry VIII of England, Catherine of Aragon/Henry VIII of England
Comments: 12
Kudos: 115





	Poppet

When she is born, Mary is beloved. Her parents send her to Ludlow as a little girl so she may grow up at the seat of the Prince of Wales and prepare it for a future brother. Oh, it hurts their hearts to be parted from her, but they love her. She is the apple of her mother’s eye, the pearl of her father’s world, and the darling of her servants and ladies. Poppet, they cry after her, chasing her through the gardens at Ludlow. Little poppet, little princess, how we adore you so. And if some of the elder maids born and raised in the hinterlands of Wales note how Mary shies away from the heavy iron keys hanging from the alderman’s hip, or how she leaves bowls of milk by the windows late at night—well, what is there to say about that? She is baptized and does her prayers at every Mass. Why risk the wrath of the formidable Queen Katherine by slandering her sweet girl?

Mary goes into a stunning beauty. She is lean, with sharp white cheekbones and a pointed little chin. Her mouth is small with plump lips in a little pout, and her long eyelashes are dark when they flutter against her cheeks. Her hair is ringlets of fire all the way to her narrow waist, unruly as the Welsh wilds even when Lady Salisbury spends an hour after bathing her trying to comb her curls into a statelier English fashion. And her eyes, Woodville green that captivates the gaze even when she turns away. At the Field of the Cloth of Gold, Mary walks with a straight back and her delicate hands clasped at her front, and all whisper in her footsteps.

All except the little Dauphin of France who detests girls and their little kisses. She shoves him down with considerable strength that mortifies her mother and amuses her father. The French prince whimpers and wails for his own mother, and the memory of her giggling into her palm never leaves him. When he falls from a horse and breaks his tender neck, all of France weeps and England sends their condolences. Mary herself composes a song in his memory for the virginals and plays them for all the court to hear. Such a terrible death, the poor boy not so much fallen from his horse as being thrown.

A princess as highborn and blue-blooded as she is raised to be gracious in all things. And Mary is quite gracious when she chooses to be. A favorite maid’s suitor finds a windfall of strong cattle and sheep in his farm and can afford a good life for them both. A kind lady-in-waiting rediscovers her long lost locket under her pillow right where she had left it months prior. Mary holds court at Ludlow and speaks in fluent Welsh to those who don’t understand English. Those with honest claims and petitions walk away judged fairly. Generously, when they are sweet.

And if a rude maid’s stockings are all to crowds attacking the laundry, or if a page’s leering eyes at Mary herself are lost from an ill-timed splash of hot water and lye? Mary gives them compensation and sends them on their way, and they leave with a chill in their lungs and their skin prickling at every flower in the fields.

She is intelligent too, her mind sharp and clear as a surgeon’s blade. There is no book she cannot finish, no stitch she cannot master, no lord’s dilemma she cannot find an answer for. Everything a king could want in a princess, but she lacks the physical parts of a prince. So instead of discussing options with his wife who does everything in the name of Mary, Henry’s eye wanders. To Bessie Blount, to Mary Boleyn, and then to Anne. Anne, Anne, all the king can think of is Anne, damn the consequences. His sons with her shall rule empires, he can see it in his mind’s eye. And so he sets about a Great Matter.

Katherine refuses to yield for Mary’s sake, still safe and sound in Ludlow. They think she is innocent of the truth, of the knowledge that Henry sees her as naught but a bastard…but servants talk. And even when servants don’t talk, the very trees of England seem to whisper in the wind of the coming storm.

“Lady Salisbury,” Mary says one day by the hearth. “If the king sets my mother the queen aside, what shall become of me?”

Lady Salisbury is horrified that Mary even knows of such a thing, let alone considers her own bastardization. Still, she remains her composure. She continues with her embroidery and tuts at Mary’s constant playing with her dolls. At least they are sewn by her own hand, and pleasingly crafted to resemble fair ladies in court attire. “The king’s will is God’s will, my princess. If your lady mother Her Majesty the Queen is his wife, then God and His Majesty the King shall judge her fairly and kindly.”

“I see.” Mary tilts her head and stares at her governess with her piercing green eyes. “And if he doesn’t?”

“We cannot question his will, now put the mater out of your mind.” Lady Salisbury steels her own gaze. “Have you gone to Mass yet, my princess? Let us pray for your lordly parents’ health.” And so they go to Mass, three times a day.

They always go to Mass when Mary asks too many questions, but that’s fine. Latin is a soothing language, as soothing as the Welsh ditties the laundry maids sing and the Spanish lullabies Katherine hums when she comes to visit. Mary makes sure to whisper her prayers so that the lovely Latin flows over her shoulders like sunlight. No one can quite ever hear what she prays for, never quite read her little mouth forming vowels and consonants. But her prayers are a princess’s prayers, and not their place to know the truth of. Dolls are more fun to Mary, though. Dolls and horseback riding and collecting flowers and hearing petitions as Princess of Wales. Sometimes people in the villages nearby swear to see a flame-haired girl walk through the forests at night when the moon is full and not a cloud in the sky. But Mary is a good girl, a good princess, a good poppet, she would never sneak out alone. She would never be less or more than her parents decree.

Henry brings Mary to court when he thinks it will soften Katherine’s will. He even introduces Anne to her, and Mary curtsies with all the grace of a woman twice her age. She is not that tall, perhaps, and still too lean for English standards of beauty, but even the famous Anne Boleyn must concede how Mary deserves the purple of her gown, and the diadem upon her head.

Mary leads court festivities, creating a pageant for her father’s enjoyment and a concerto for her mother’s. Ambassadors see the fair princess, fifteen years of age and fit for marriage. How the light catches in her hair and cheeks and eyes, how she can converse in Greek but still find time to play with the young children at court with her dolls. The same dolls that Lady Salisbury tells her to set aside in favor of ladylike pursuits. But Mary wants her dolls, and what Mary wants Mary almost always gets. Henry loves Anne more than Katherine and Mary, Katherine has too many enemies, the tides of the world are shifting away from Mary’s favor—she does not want these things. Courtiers see the way her lips press into a thin line when Henry snubs Katherine, how she narrows her eyes when Anne courts favor above her standing.

So she dances, and sings, and walks in the gardens so quickly that her maids and ladies lose track of her. She avoids anything to do with iron or boxwood, and seeks out dandelions to make flower rings with. She prays, in the public privacy of Mass and the personal privacy of under her blanket at night. And all the while her parents and priests and Boleyns and Mores fight and argue over the Great Matter, Mary plays with her dolls. Oh, Lady Salisbury reprimands her for her lightheartedness, as good Christian ladies ought to spend their hours praying and being penitent. Yes, yes, good Christian ladies did that…but Mary, with her Woodville green eyes and sharp cheekbones, never claims to be as such.

Things start happening. Thomas Cromwell’s horse throws a shoe and the man takes a hard tumble that fractures his arm. It heals shorter than the other and the king scorns him for such a deformity. Then Thomas Crammer eats under cooked chicken and is so violently sick he must retire from court to recover. Then rains, rains as vicious and violent as any summer deluge, wash out the Boleyn estate and much of their wealth. People see it as a sign of God for Henry to relent, but Henry sees it as a sign of God to not give up. The trial at Blackfriars commences and Mary is kept in isolation at Hatfield until they know what to do with her.

A maid sees Mary sewing dolls. She asks whom they are for, and Mary says they are for the tenant children. The maid is touched by Mary’s kindness, and says no more of it. Indeed, the tenant children receive a dozen new dolls. Alas, Mary pricks her finger while sewing two more, and cannot give away a spoiled gift. She keeps those and none question it.

Anne comes to see her, one time. Mary asks, “Why are you consorting with my father? He is a married man and you are not.”

“The king your father loves me and shall marry me.” Anne’s voice is kind, if patronizing. “It must be confusing for you, to know that your parents’ marriage is invalid. But I promise that I shall be a kind stepmother to you.” She smiles. “The king himself told me to tell you that no matter your legitimacy, you are ever the pearl of his world.”

Mary doesn’t scoff or rage and simper. She just stares at Anne with her vibrant green eyes, too vibrant in the stolid colors of Hatfield’s chambers. “How presumptuous of you to assume the future,” Mary murmurs. “Do take care, as the future is not ours to see.” Anne leaves in a hurry, with the sense of doom clinging to her skirt hem. Lady Salisbury reprimands Mary for unchristian rudeness, and Mary bows her head. But when the lady leaves, Mary considers her dolls.

She unwraps them, the ones she holds dearest. Some wear gowns of purple and black, others cream and gold. Black hair, red hair, blonde hair, and eyes of ever color. She selects one doll above the others: a dashing knight in red and white, with eyes of blue and red hair. Mary cradles it, and watches the flames in her hearth, how they crackle so merrily against the coming night.

Henry comes to see her, as well. Mary’s temper is tempered by being raised a graceful and gracious lady, but it is Tudor all the same. When he insinuates that her mother is not the true queen, Mary stands up and knocks her chair aside. “You cannot do this, Father!” She yells and her bell-like voice rises high into the rafters. “Mother has done nothing wrong! Why are you punishing us, what have we done to make you hate us so?!”

He grabs her delicate shoulders and shakes her until her chin catches on her chest and she bites her own tongue. “You know nothing, girl!” he rages. “I am the King of England, who are you to question me?”

She narrows her eyes, even when they well with tears. “I am the Princess of that same England! England and Wales and Spain! I have more royal blood in my veins than even you, Father!”

He grabs her chin hard enough to bruise; she bites him hard enough to draw blood. He yells and slaps her. “You are naught but a disobedient bastard!” Mary sobs, and Henry’s gaze softens. “You are confused by this matter, I understand. But you cannot speak to your father, your king, in such a manner. You will see for yourself the truth when this matter is sorted.”

Mary catches the blood from her mouth in her handkerchief. “When you marry the Lady Anne and cast me aside?” He is silent and she curtsies. “Forgive me Father, but I feel unwell. I must lie down.” Henry storms out of her rooms and slams every door on his way out. Lady Salisbury comes to scold her for daring to bite her own kingly father, but she finds her fainted on her bed. She leaves the matter for the next day, and sets a fire in her hearth so the girl doesn’t catch a cold.

Lady Salisbury forgets to scold Mary, for the next day bring strange news. The king sickens with a fever. First a mild one, a ruddiness to his cheeks that the court sees as a flush of youth and vitality. But then his cheeks pale and his brow sweats and every movement is agony. His bowels loosen, he cannot keep any food or drink in, and none of the royal physicians can find the herb or poultice to cure him. Mary is called back to court, and bid to see the king one last time. Anne has already departed for Hever, weeping and sobbing and sick herself. Katherine spends every waking hour in the royal chapel, wearing pressure sores into her knees and scratching her skin raw with her hair shirt.

Mary curtsies at the door of Henry’s sickroom, and the men inside depart. Out come Charles Brandon, weeping for his friend and brother-in-law; Thomas More, despondent for his fallen protégé; George Boleyn, the last remnant of his once rising star, and others beneath them. They all nod at her, some with kindness and some with apprehension. Soon she is alone, with Henry gasping and shaking in his bed.

“Come, my child,” he wheezes. Mary walks to his side, hands clasped behind her back and eyes bright in the fire light. Henry reaches out for her, and she grasps his sweaty pale hand in one of her delicate cool hands. “You…you shall be Queen of England.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “God forbid such a fate for you…but you have your mother. You must be strong…do not let England become a puppet…”

“I wouldn’t dare such a thing,” she murmurs. “I am not one to be a puppet like you.”

Henry’s eyes open and he sees her holding her doll in her hands. Her dashing knight in red and white, tied in the handkerchief stained with Henry’s blood and Mary’s blood, scorched from the ember she placed in its chest. Mary looks down at his growing terror with pity. “What—what have you done—”

“A puppet, a poppet, that’s what you always were, Father.” Her plump little mouth twists into a wide grin, slow and terrible. Her already knife-like cheekbones and chin sharpen in the shadows, harsh and deadly. Her skin is alabaster, and her hair caught aflame from the hearth, and her eyes—god forbid, her eyes! Her bright green eyes! “Caught every which way by the strings of lust and pride and foolishness. You would have abandoned Mother and I for the sake of a woman some call a witch.” She giggles, bells ringing and ringing like the chimes beneath the sodden earth. “But I am no poppet, I play with them. I shall be a good queen, and I shall make sure history remembers you kindly, Father. You have my word.”

Before he can cry out, before he can beg, Mary throws her poppet into the fire. Henry chokes on a final breath, and his fever escalates until perhaps the tears leaking from his eyes shall turn to steam. Mary watches the doll turn to ash and turns it over in the hearth three times until it is gone forever. Then she closes his eyes, calls out for the physicians, and weeps.

Mary is crowned queen, her crown of gold glittering in her fiery hair and illuminating her green eyes. She smiles at Mother, who stands tall with grief in her shoulders and love in her face. She smiles at all her lords, even the lords who sought to put aside her mother. And she smiles at the Boleyns, come to see their enemy triumph. She smiles especially bright for them, and their name fades from history into anonymity when she marries Anne to a widowed Henry Percy and sends them all away.

The Boleyns fade into a green dream of a green king, a gentler and kinder fate than their paranoia planned for Mary. She marries Henry Grey, her cousin of a cousin and fellow descendant of a strange and beautiful queen. He gives up her name to rule with her, an easy price to earn her affections. Their children, two sons named Henry and Thomas and two daughters named Catherine and Elizabeth, have Woodville green eyes and sharp cheekbones. England prospers, perhaps not a golden reign but not an iron one either. Henry VIII is remembered as a youthful and passionate king struck down in his prime, beloved by his only daughter. Katherine is a Queen Mother given every honor and comfort and lives to see her grandchildren in the cradle. The Reformation is not a purging or a war, but a slow value shift over Mary’s reign and Henry’s reign and his William’s reign and his Isabel’s reign and her Thomas’s reign until hardly anyone can remember the initial fuss about it.

Mary plays with her dolls all the while, smiling at her children and husband and citizens, calling them her dear poppets.

**Author's Note:**

> This story came from the shower thought of “Wouldn’t it be funny if instead of Mary I being a fanatical Catholic, she was instead a witch?” And then I thought about how Elizabeth Woodville is supposedly descended from the fairy/witch Melusine, and how Mary lives in Wales for a time which has a rich folklore including fairies and witches. Then it took a life of its own.
> 
> Is Mary a witch? A changeling? A girl fortunate where her enemies are not? Who knows! 
> 
> Notes about some of the folklore and magical elements in the story:
> 
> -According to Welsh (and general European) mythology and folklore, fairies are fair-haired beings who avoid touching iron and sometimes boxwood trees; bestow riches upon those they favor and mischief and misfortune upon those they don’t; and are given offerings of bowls of milk at night and fire in the hearth. They also leave changelings.
> 
> -Poppets are human-like figures, oftentimes dolls or bundles of sticks or wire, which can be used by witches to either inflict curses or blessing upon a target. Jacquetta of Luxembourg, Elizabeth Woodville’s mother and therefore Mary’s great-great grandmother, was accused of witchcraft (and acquitted) because she owned poppets and had enemies. Some witches would add the target’s hair, clothing or blood to the poppet to bind the connection between the two. 
> 
> -Poppet is also a term of endearment for children and girls and sweethearts, and the Mary in this story is certainly beloved.


End file.
